Screw You, Dante

I have decided that the ninth circle of hell, instead of being Frozen in Ice, is actually Being Sick in a Foreign Country. First of all, you're thousands of miles from home, so there's absolutely no chance that your mom is going to come and feed you flat 7-Up, banana popsicles, and Children's Tylenol (grape flavor only, accept no substitutes).

Second, you can't possibly figure out how sick you really are, because the damn thermometer is in Centigrade and you think in Farenheit. I mean, you're smart enough to make the conversion, probably, when you're not suffering from a SPLITTING headache.

Which leads to another thing. You cannot get aspirin or some equivalent drug in this country, because the pharmacist hides them all behind his eight-foot-high counter, and then looks all cock-eyed at you when you ask for them and offers you pumpkin seed pills with goat cheese oil or something. Not okay!

Mostly I just want my own bed, my own drugs, and my own flat 7-Up. Is that so much to ask?

Evidently so, Satan.